


The Continental

by bitter_leaf



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Alternate Universe - Noir, Bottom Harry Styles, Canon-Typical Violence, Grinding, M/M, Paris (City), Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, Top Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 08:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitter_leaf/pseuds/bitter_leaf
Summary: After Harry’s contracted by the French mob to kill Louis, the two find themselves in a game of cat and mouse through the streets of Paris. Only before the night is over, Louis leads Harry back to the Hotel Continental where no business is permitted on the premises, and where Harry has to face the possibility that Louis is the one job he can’t finish.A smutty John Wick AU where Harry’s got flair, Louis fights dirty, but neither of them are backing down.





	The Continental

**Author's Note:**

> CW: This depicts violence in line with that in the John Wick films but it's not gory. Neither H nor L get particularly hurt.
> 
> Also you don't need to have seen John Wick to follow this, the only thing that places this fic inside the JW universe is the hotel.
> 
> Things this fic isn’t: beta’d properly. My sincerest apologies but also yolo.

** THE CONTINENTAL **

“They call him The Kid, do you know him?” the voice barks down the line, the crackling sound echoing from where Harry’s phone lies on the ornate dressing table. 

Harry brushes invisible lint of the shoulder of his suit and straightens his cravat. “I’ve heard of him although I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of his company.”

“Vénère wants him gone,” the voice continues, irritated by Harry’s lack of urgency, “Now.”

Harry laughs, an elegant little huff rounded out by his deep, velvety voice. “Oh, I’m sure, my friend Faucheux, I’m sure. Nevertheless…”

Faucheux clears his throat down the line, begrudgingly ready to bargain. “Vénère is willing to pay as much as last time, as well as your expenses of course.”

Harry straightens and walks to the phone, taking the call off speaker, and lifting it to his ear. “Ah, Monsieur Faucheux, that simply won’t do.” Harry examines his fingernails daintily even though the man on the other end of the line can’t see him, “You see I have a reputation to uphold. Clean kills only, as I’m sure I’ve told you before. That is why your employer engaged me in the first place, _non_?”

Faucheux grumbles but he doesn’t disagree.

Harry continues, trailing a manicured finger over the brocade bedspread, “I daresay, any idiot can kill a man but I command the highest prices because I have a certain… _style_. Some of my counterparts accuse me of fastidiousness, refusing to take contracts on our own kind, but I see no need to get down and dirty.”

Faucheux pauses, clearly unsure of his scope of authority. “_Nevertheless_, as you English say… come to Paris. Vénère will see you personally. I am confident we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

**

“I won’t be easily swayed, Monsieur Vénère.” Harry lifts his drink, a single gin and tonic, to his lips and takes a sip. “I appreciate this lovely trip to Paris but I have something of a personal policy not to play petty games with my colleagues. Our business is transactional in nature, our agreements are with our clients but their disagreements are their own. Targeting each other, while it reduces the competition, is not terribly gentlemanly.”

Vénère only glares across the table in the corner of the darkened club and stubs his cigarette out in the crystal ashtray. The booming dance music means they can’t be overheard.

“Do you know what he did, Mr Gatsby?”

Harry toys with the rim of his glass, ring s on his fingers gleaming in the low light. “With all due respect, sir, it makes no difference to me. I don’t let it affect my work.”

Vénère ignores him, leaning his elbows forward onto the tabletop, enormous shoulders rounding. “Durand, my right hand man, this… _Kid_ dislocated his shoulder and strangled him with his own arm before dumping him in the Seine.”

“I won’t make apologies for our industry, Monsieur Vénère; it simply wouldn’t make good business sense.”

Vénère sighs. “Well, business I understand.” There’s a pause, “I will pay you whatever you ask. Cash, jewels, weapons, whatever you like.”

Harry smirks but doesn’t answer, clinking the ice cubes in his glass before draining it. Vénère nods to his offsider who disappears to the bar. “I am not a cheap date, Monsieur Vénère.”

Vénère leans back in his chair and folds his arms. “I appreciated your work with Rosetti, Mr Gatsby. As we say in France, your work has a certain _je ne sais quoi_. It is forceful but poetic. Very French in many ways, I think.”

Another gin and tonic is placed at Harry’s left but he doesn’t touch it, leaning forward to fold his slender fingers together.

Vénère continues, “If I cannot tempt you with material things, can I appeal to your sense of professional standards…” Vénère’s eyes gleam and Harry thinks despite his heavy accent, his English is impeccable. “At least let me show you some of his work, perhaps it will intrigue you.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “I’ll admit, my interest is piqued. He’s English too, isn’t he?”

Vénère nods and smiles, menacing, teeth bared like a dog. “English, about your age too.” He snaps his fingers and a buff envelope appears. “After your conversation with Monsieur Faucheux, I anticipated you would drive a hard bargain, Mr Gatsby, so like any good businessman, I came prepared.”

Vénère empties the envelope, spreading the photographs side by side. They’re graphic, as Harry predicted, and he’s certainly no prude when it comes to blood. But there’s something savage about The Kid’s work, ruthless and scrappy, that makes it look like he used every ounce of mental energy and physical strength to _destroy_ these people. It’s not excessive, not more than required to end their lives, but it’s brutal and it sends chills down Harry’s spine. He feels his curiosity getting the better of him.

Vénère pulls out another envelope, this time from his inside pocket, and it’s stuffed with wads of bills. He places it on the tabletop and pats it gently. “This is _four_ times what I paid you for Rosetti, half now, half when it’s done. You will come to understand I value loyalty, Mr Gatsby. What this kid did to Durand…” Vénère sets his jaw.

Harry purses his lips and picks up his drink but he doesn’t drink, just holds it as he rests his arm on the table.

Vénère’s eyes flash and Harry thinks he’d be handsome if he wasn’t so unscrupulous. He pulls out one final photograph. “This is him.”

Harry’s blood runs cold because The Kid looks so innocent, small in stature, sweet features and dainty hands, almost like a girl’s. But it’s his eyes that are the most striking because although they’re a pure blue, they’re as cold as ice. Just like that, Harry’s enthralled.

“Mr Gatsby, you say you don’t want to get your hands dirty, but I think you agree, The Kid’s work is _filthy_. You’d make quite the match, I imagine.”

Harry’s throat feels like the desert and he gulps his drink down, scolding himself for appearing uncouth.

Vénère laughs appreciatively, “Mr Gatsby, can we make a deal?”

Harry nods and hopes it sends a message of English stoicism. “We can.”

Vénère pushes the envelope forth and they shake on it.

“Oh and Gatsby?” Vénère calls as Harry leaves the table, and Harry spins on his heel.

A sick smile spreads over Vénère’s face. “Toy with him a little, won’t you?”

**

Harry’s never worked a target as difficult as The Kid, his build making him hard to set his sights on, ducking and weaving through crowds, around corners, light on his feet and quick as a whip. 

The Kid is so good, Harry can’t even tell if he’s working a job, his movements deliberate but his purpose indiscernible, roaming the streets of the City of Lights. 

Harry takes time to study him. His tradecraft is so flawless it’s imperceptible to all but the most practiced of assassins. His right side is clearly the strongest, his reflexes almost preternatural. However, he’s carrying the barest twinge of an old knee injury, and his small hands, while an advantage for some tasks, will surely limit his dexterity with larger weaponry. 

It’s a few days before Harry sets his plan in motion, Vénère’s words fresh in his mind and his extravagant cash payment burns a hole in his safety deposit box. While Harry conducts his business with a seasoned flair that’s helped him build his reputation, something about the one-time-only nature about this hit makes him want to draw it out.

It’s a Friday night and the city is alive, sky the colour of charcoal and Paris’ distinct scent of rain and gasoline in the air. Harry’s been five steps behind since The Kid left The Continental, trailing as The Kid runs circuitous routes trying to shake off any tail. He’s good but Harry’s better, although The Kid has no reason to be wary. He will be after tonight, Harry thinks, and his skin tingles with anticipation, his fingertips dancing over the karambit in his trouser pocket.

Finally, The Kid enters an underground club; business or pleasure, Harry’s itching to find out. The club is hot and dark, bodies writhing to the music and Harry loses The Kid almost immediately among the throng, his senses attenuated by deafening bass and smoky air. _Pull yourself together, Styles_, he thinks to himself, retraining his eyes with laser focus and threading through the shadows to become invisible again.

He spies The Kid at the bar, his back to the counter, lean frame draped artfully as he sips his whisky and surveys the room. To an untrained eye, he’d look relaxed but Harry can see the tell-tale signs of alertness; the way his fingers twitch on his glass in case they have to be raised to protect his face, the way he stands with his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to sidestep, or strike.

Harry takes a fleeting moment to admire him, after all he may be a trained killer but he’s also human. The Kid’s dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket tonight, hair pushed back from his face showing off cheekbones that could cut glass. It’s difficult to reconcile this refined version of The Kid with the viciousness of his kills and Harry secretly hopes he’ll get to see him work, to see what precedes such a transformation.

Patting his knife where it weighs heavy in his pocket for luck, a foolish superstition from his youth, Harry makes his move.

“Evening,” Harry says as he leans on the bar, lifting two fingers to get the bartender’s attention. He orders his G&T, because it’s his drink and because it’s an obvious reinforcement of his Englishness, a weak attempt at creating some sort of kinship.

The Kid barely looks over but apparently gets enough of an eyeful for his lips to turn up in a sneer. 

“What are you drinking?” Harry asks, rendering his voice deep in a way that rarely fails to raise interest from men and women alike.

“Glendalough triple barrel. But you already knew that.”

The bartender places Harry’s glass onto a napkin and slides it over to him.

Harry nods, smiling wryly before inching closer. “Your reputation precedes you.”

The Kid rolls his eyes, smirking, although Harry can tell he hasn’t remotely dropped his guard. “Is there no such thing as foreplay anymore?” His eyes are even more piercing up close and The Kid’s gaze makes Harry’s heart beat fast like that first punch, or the final pulse of spilt blood.

“Do you know who I am?” Harry asks, leaning in, eyes dark.

The Kid snorts with derision. “Does that line often work for you?”

Harry’s heart trips over in his chest and it’s a disturbing, if not novel, feeling. They’ve only exchanged a few words and Harry already knows that this kill will be uniquely satisfying, probably a career highlight. His hand drops to his pocket casually, thumbing the handle of his blade.

“Jesus,” The Kid says, still smirking as he stares pointedly at Harry’s pocket, “don’t blow your load too quickly, mate. Night’s still young.”

It’s bold and it’s flirtatious and it’d be cute if he wasn’t so dangerous. “Do you dance?” Harry asks, and it’s reckless but if things so awry, he figures, slicing The Kid’s throat in the centre of a nightclub dancefloor is nothing if not extravagant. Vénère would surely be pleased with that.

“Are you offering?” The Kid retorts, and it’s not a yes but it’s not a no.

The corners of Harry’s mouth curl up because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his composure. “Do you ever not answer a question with a question?”

The Kid raises an eyebrow and cracks his knuckles and the sharp sound of bone on bone goes straight to Harry’s dick.

The Kid places his drink down on the bar-top. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Harry downs his drink, not failing to notice the way The Kid eyes his exposed throat as he knocks it back.

On the dancefloor, The Kid is as aloof as ever, hips rotating in purposeful, but non-committal, circles, as if he does this all the time. Harry puts his hands on The Kid’s hips, slow and steady so as not to lose a hand in the process. The Kid gives over to it but his eyes are searching, muscles twitching under his clothes and Harry knows he’s always, always ready to counter any threat, to kill, to win.

The Kid licks his lips as they make eye contact and Harry feels it like a blunt punch to the gut, visceral and titillating, on the verge of pleasurable the way all pain becomes after years of feeling it for a living. Immediately, he wants more of it.

The Kid must feel the same because he pushes back in closer, angling himself dangerously as if he’s feeling out his surroundings, assessing the risk with every extremity. Remembering those photos, Harry wonders if The Kid’s ever killed a man with his hips. Almost definitely his thighs, crushing a windpipe, twisting a spine until it cracks. The thought makes Harry swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

The Kid twists in Harry’s embrace and his hands travel to Harry’s forearms, gripping them and Harry’s nerve endings fire at the touch. Harry hopes he bruises, The Kid’s fingers imprinted in his flesh like a brand. His thoughts drift to how he’d kill The Kid now if he had to, perhaps drop him to the floor and stomp his skull, maybe pull his knife and slice him across the belly. He wonders what The Kid would do, almost wants to ask, show The Kid that foreplay’s not dead after all.

Despite his best instincts, Harry can’t help but feel he could take The Kid if it came down to hand-to-hand combat, even in head-to-toe Gucci. It gives him the confidence to lean in, and whisper in The Kid’s ear. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

The Kid’s eyes darken with determination. “I don’t mix business and pleasure.” Just like that, his smile is gone and Harry’s breath catches in his throat; he doesn’t know if he’d rather fuck him or fight him. Both, definitely.

“Which one is this?” Harry asks, because he came here with a job to do despite how much he’s enjoying this.

The Kid leans back further into Harry’s arms and his body is turning Harry on, but his confidence is even hotter, like he’s not even aware that Harry could break his neck or put a bullet in his head in less time than it’d take him to turn around. He’s either trusting or foolhardy, but either way, it’s a strategy that’s going to get him killed. Harry only hopes it’s later rather than sooner.

“I’ve got a feeling _you’re_ going to tell _me_,” The Kid says, his cocky demeanour returning. They dance like that for a while, Harry close to losing himself in the heat between their bodies. The Kid looks like he’s feeling it too, that or he’s a fantastic actor, all flushed cheeks and glistening skin, a sly grin on his face as he grinds backwards until Harry moans and grips his hips tighter still.

The Kid turns his face back and Harry thinks he might be inching to kiss him and for Harry, it’s a step too far, knowing how vulnerable he’ll be if he gives in to The Kid’s mouth, knowing once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. But The Kid doesn’t kiss him just brushes his lips to Harry’s cheek to whisper in his ear.

“Is that a knife in your pocket, or…” he trails off and Harry barks out a laugh.

“And you said my lines were bad,” Harry growls, regaining his composure. Throwing caution to the wind, Harry moves his hand lower to grip at The Kid’s bulging crotch, the heat burning into his palm. The Kid gasps and Harry’s gleefully smug, knowing The Kid’s not as in control as he thought he was.

Emboldened by The Kid’s reaction, Harry grinds his hips forward, slow and hard, and The Kid melts into his embrace. If that wasn’t enough of a turn on, Harry’s dick twitches when he feels The Kid’s delicate hand dart to his pocket where his knife sits; just like him, The Kid can turn on a dime, channel the ravenous heat in his body into cold, lethal power. It’s so fucking hot Harry can hardly stand it.

Seconds from coming, Harry begrudgingly pulls away and the shock of cool air against his chest is sobering, despite the urgent throbbing in his suit trousers. The Kid spins around and his grin is wolfish and Harry doesn’t know if he’s won or lost this round. Somehow, he thinks both would feel equally good.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Harry says, holding The Kid’s gaze.

“Given up already?” 

Harry leans in again to brush his lips to the apple of The Kid’s cheek before swapping over to kiss the other; it’s infinitely more sensual than _la bise_ usually is but the quaint gesture makes The Kid grin. Harry takes advantage of the moment, leaning in further to speak into The Kid’s ear. “Vénère sends his regards. Consider this your head start.”

The Kid pulls back but he’s still smiling, his eyes flashing and his body poised, like a ravenous lion ready to pounce. He raises a solitary eyebrow. “I’ll be seeing you, Gatsby.”

Harry tries not to preen at the fact The Kid did know who he was all along as he turns to leave. His senses on overdrive, he can feel The Kid’s eyes on him like a physical touch, fighting the urge to turn back and finish what they started. Stopping in his tracks, he turns to flash The Kid one final smile. “Not if I see you first.”

**

Harry’s infatuated and he mulls his dilemma over in his head as he stares at the ornate ceiling of Brasserie Vagenende. He’s sat at the banquette, a table for one, thumbing the base of his wine glass absent‑mindedly. Since that night in the club, he’s thought only about the way The Kid’s body felt under his hands; fine-boned and delicate like a baby bird but also wiry and tensile like the snake that eats it. The Kid’s both predator and prey, hard but soft, vicious but precious and Harry wants to let him use every ounce of energy to earn a dignified death before Harry takes him apart, piece by piece, feels the life leave his lovely body.

Unfortunately, he knows he might not get the chance because The Kid’s far too good to let him have it the way he wants. He knows Vénère would be more than pleased if Harry riddled The Kid’s body with metal, as long as there was a bullet placed square between his eyes but Harry’s left dragging his heels, wondering if he can have his cake and eat it too. They’re evenly matched, The Kid’s good but Harry knows he’s better, and so it’s really only a matter of time.

True to his word, Harry’s given The Kid a head start, a forty eight hour amnesty for The Kid to see The Sommelier at the hotel, arm himself appropriately and get his affairs in order. Meanwhile, Harry’s explored the city; Paris the perfect combination of old and new, stylish and gritty. He’s wandered the Jardins de Luxembourg, shopped the Grand Boulevards, visited the Louvre to make a wish on the Winged Victory of Samothrace and pay his respects to the statue of Artemis, the huntress, the patron saint of assassins.

It’s midnight the following evening when The Kid’s time finally runs out.

Harry’s got a clean shot from where he’s wedged underneath the Pont Neuf, the slimy cobblestones digging into his knees. It’s a cloudy night, cold and windy, and every so often, the Seine will jump out of its dank depths to nip at his ankles where they dangle over the edge. It’s as if The Kid can read him, leaning against his bike at street level, the only sign he’s there at all the glint of his cigarette.

The Kid is no coward, knew his lot from the minute Harry turned on the countdown clock on his life but he’s still bold, audacious, _arrogant_, and somehow he’s managed to make Harry forget all professional pretences and stow his weapon in its case. He’ll get Vénère his pound of flesh, he just never agreed to how, and how quick. Not immaterially, he certainly didn’t sign on to getting river sludge on his new season pea coat.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters under his breath, pulling on his gloves and sneaking back along the bank the way he came. He tosses his rifle in the boot of his Bentley, a gift that arrived unceremoniously from Vénère the previous day as a not-so-gentle reminder of their agreement. He grips the steering wheel as he drives, black leather on beige, spinning the virgin wheels around corners as he barrels towards nowhere in particular. His jaw is set and his eyes ache as if they might water although he’s not cried since he was a child. A sickening feeling courses through him and it’s a stomach-lurching mixture of disgust at his own weakness and spite at The Kid’s misplaced confidence. Thankfully, he’s a professional, the last hour notwithstanding, and it’s ultimately galvanising in that it makes him want to wipe the smirk off The Kid’s face, preferably with a quick snap of his pretty neck.

Harry thinks about heading out of the city, cruising the Périphérique at double the speed limit to clear his head. Maybe he could call on some old friends, pick up a job for the night, expend his murderous energy on a few quick and easy hits.

He’s barely reached the Gare du Nord when he sees him in his mirrors, a blinding headlight and the distinctive high-pitched roar of a motorbike revving. A shock of adrenaline courses through his veins because it’s back on, and he resolves to get his hands on The Kid tonight.

The Kid rides like Harry’s seen him do everything else; with no regard for his safety, movements precise but more daring than anyone has the right to make. He’s darting in and out of traffic, speeding up and slowing down and Harry knows he’s toying with him. The Kid’s agile on his bike but Harry’s got size on his side, swerving and braking, cutting off traffic to keep up, narrowly missing a weathered Peugeot as he barrels after The Kid straight through a red light.

There’s no way Harry’s going to run The Kid over, doubts Vénère would even pay him the rest of his fee if he turned The Kid into pulp on, of all uninspiring streets, the Boulevard de Clichy. This is the part of the job Harry loves, the thrill of the chase, and he can’t remember having more fun than this, blood pumping, muscles twitching, his hands yearning to crush something other than the steering wheel. Suddenly, Harry’s dogged attention is drawn away from his target because the sound system in the car rings. An unknown number.

“What?” Harry answers, voice clipped, as if he’s been interrupted. There’s only breath, barely any sound at all, but Harry knows immediately who it is.

“You had the shot,” the voice says, “You should have taken it.”

Harry can’t help but smile back, even though The Kid can’t see him. “I didn’t,” Harry lies before he can stop himself, “I didn’t account for the cross breeze across the river.”

The Kid chuckles. “Liar.”

Harry smarts, gripping the wheel harder, leather gloves creaking, “It’s not like you were playing hard to get,” Harry replies haughtily. “I prefer to actually earn my fee.”

“I knew you wouldn’t do it,” The Kid replies immediately. 

“You’re mistaking my good sportsmanship for compassion. I won’t hesitate again.”

“You admit it then. You hesitated.” The Kid’s voice rings out through the cold emptiness of the vehicle; his voice is high and sharp, and although the humour in his voice is gone, a tinge of derision remains. Harry feels like he could listen to that voice forever and never get sick of it.

Harry pauses. “When I do it, I’d rather you see me coming.”

Harry fancies he can hear The Kid’s mouth twisting into a smile before he speaks again, voice soft. “Oh, I’ll see you coming, don’t you worry about that.”

Harry inhales sharply as The Kid’s words hit him and he makes a sharp turn at speed. The thrill is electrifying. 

“How do you want it?” Harry asks, voice syrupy and low.

The Kid breathes heavily down the line, the sound a deep rumble, almost a growl, “Parvis du Trocadéro. I’m going to wreck you, Gatsby.”

Harry licks his lips; he can imagine it already, The Kid’s eyes blank and lifeless as his body lies broken against the cool tile of the Parvis with the Iron Lady looking on.

Harry floors it past the Parc Monceau with its tall black gates and charming rotunda towards the Arc de Triomphe. His blood already feels like it’s boiling as he tries to mentally checklist what he knows about how The Kid fights. Harry thinks The Kid can’t have been packing much more than a pistol unless he makes a pit stop but somehow he has a feeling that’s not how this is going to go.

He might be hot for it but he’s not stupid and so Harry conducts some basic reconnaissance before he gets out of the car to make sure The Kid’s come alone. With a flicker of surprise at having been beaten here, Harry spies The Kid’s bike, parked and abandoned, at street level. He tugs at his lapels to straighten them as he walks onto the concourse, the heels of his shoes clicking brazenly on the intricate pavers.

Harry makes it out onto the centre of the Parvis and stops, looking around. It’s completely quiet at this time of night, not a soul in sight, the Tour Eiffel casting a warm glow over the gleaming tiles and across the high walls of the Palais de Chaillot. It hits Harry that this is more like a dance floor than the cramped floor of the club, just as much a place for a seduction than a fight to the death. Harry wonders if this is one of those times his body confuses the two.

“Alright?” Comes the snide voice from behind him.

Harry spins around, curls becoming askew but reflexes as sharp as ever. The Kid’s standing serenely watching him only a few feet away and Harry’s pulse races at the thought of The Kid sneaking up on him completely undetected. For the first time, Harry wonders if he has a genuine blind spot where The Kid’s concerned because the view now is as breathtaking as the first time; soft hair, a wry smile, oversized clothes that do nothing for his body, make him look smaller than he is. Harry wonders if, _finally_, he’ll get to feel what’s underneath. He looks just any other cocky lad who might try and throw a punch on a drunken Saturday night, but Harry knows better. This one’s killed men twice his size with his bare hands.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and it’s like a stand-off. “It’d be best if you just let me do this quickly.” Harry’s voice is calm, resigned almost, but The Kid doesn’t flinch.

“Is that what you’d do in my position?”

They’re still standing metres apart, wind whipping over the elevated esplanade. There’s not a moment of doubt in Harry’s mind. “No.”

“Is that what you _want_ me to do?”

Again, Harry doesn’t skip a beat. “No.”

The Kid sprints toward him and Harry only has time to capture the look in his eyes before The Kid’s on him, a taut forearm forcing at his throat making him choke, a sneaky heel clipping Harry around the knee. Just like that, Harry’s on his back on the cold ground, a pair of small hands like a vice around his neck and bony knees pinning Harry’s arms by his head. Harry tries fruitlessly to buck him off with his superior size but The Kid’s immoveable, eyes cold and fixed as Harry struggles to breathe.

Harry finally succeeds in grappling one of his arms free and shoves The Kid’s face up, a heavy blow with the heel of his hand. It works, partially, Harry twisting under The Kid’s weight until he’s on his front, The Kid astride his hips, arms unsuccessfully pinned by his head once again.

“Cutting right to the chase, eh?” The Kid whispers in his ear and it sends a shock of heat from Harry’s hairline to the tips of his toes.

Harry jerks his body and The Kid’s taken unaware, his light frame dislodged easily. Harry flips onto his back and onto his feet but The Kid’s already up, smirking as he smears a drop of blood from where it’s pooled at the corner of his lip. Harry wants to lick it off.

The Kid rounds his shoulders again and lunges and he’s all fingers and elbows, blocking Harry’s vision as he tries to squeeze him into a punishing headlock. It’s unorthodox and messy, but it’s effective. Just like The Kid was impossible to track, he’s impossible to predict, sickening hits landing on Harry’s ribs as his arms flail, trying to protect himself.

With a groan of pain, Harry realises he needs to get control of the situation, put some space between them, but The Kid keeps coming at him like a steadfast wave. Finally, Harry seizes his moment, grabbing at The Kid’s wrist and twisting his arm behind him, crowding him, the other arm looped around The Kid’s neck. The Kid’s eyes are flashing as he pants, wired and frantic, thrashing around in Harry’s hold like vicious animal.

“Shh,” Harry says, and his voice must be a balm because The Kid loosens in his arms. “What’s the rush, baby? We’ve got all night.”

The Kid comes alive again, planting his feet to flip Harry back onto the ground with an inelegant thud. Harry hears something crack but he doesn’t feel a thing. It’s time to up the ante.

Harry pulls a blade from the inside of his coat and the metal shines in the bright moonlight. Harry feels his body still as he sees the flash reflect in The Kid’s eyes. He’s ready.

The Kid licks his lips and throws Harry a sly smile and then it’s on, The Kid jumping and diving, contorting into impossible shapes to avoid Harry’s slashes as they cut through the cool night air. The Kid still hasn’t pulled a weapon and there’s no obvious sign of back up, despite The Kid having a list of generous benefactors with endless thugs the length of his arm. 

It’s after another barrage that Harry realises The Kid’s strength, that which makes him better than anyone he’s ever fought before, is his stamina. The Kid doesn’t tire, each blow, each bruise, each cut spurring him like a wind-up toy. He’s sporting a crooked knee, a slice to the face, ribs no doubt black and blue but he just keeps going with a terrifying ferocity that Harry’s never seen before, despite seeing hundreds of men fight for their lives, just like this. Harry has the upper hand in terms of strength like he knew he would but The Kid’s brutalising tenacity makes them equals.

The Kid has Harry pinned again, knife skittered across the concourse long ago, hands around his neck and knees digging into the soft insides of Harry’s thighs. Harry knows if he doesn’t get The Kid off soon, his pelvis will eventually crack, sharp bone will piece an artery and he’ll bleed to death, the last thing he’ll see will be the empty blue of The Kid’s eyes. Despite this, he wants to relax into it, grind up in a way that’s designed to keep The Kid on top of him rather than get him off.

“Don’t,” The Kid says suddenly and Harry’s shocked to hear his voice, hoarse and overcome. It’s surely only been fifteen minutes since he spoke last but it feels like a lifetime.

Despite his strongest instincts, Harry stops fighting back completely. “Don’t what?”

The Kid’s face twists into an expression of disgust. “Don’t fucking play with me.” The Kid’s hand fly to the sides of Harry’s face where he holds it gently before he slams Harry’s skull into the pavement. “Don’t you dare go easy on me,” The Kid snarls, eyes wild, hands returning to his throat.

“I’m not,” Harry squeezes out as he gasps for air, because it’s not a lie. He thinks he could honestly die now and be at peace with it, The Kid a warm weight on his body like a blanket, his ragged breath rocking Harry to an endless sleep as he suffocates.

The Kid stills, his eyes never leaving Harry’s, before he’s up off him and backing away. Harry gasps for air for the second time tonight. If he lives and The Kid dies, the handprints seared into his skin will be The Kid’s lasting legacy.

The Kid takes another step back, arms wide and palms up, like an offering. His expression is plaintive and Harry’s taken aback, wondering briefly if The Kid’s giving up, but as sure as night follows day, The Kid’s face twists into a smirk. “Come and get me then, big boy.”

This time his body isn’t confused, The Kid’s words, his smile sending shockwaves straight to Harry’s dick. Harry bounds up as if pulled by an invisible string and levels The Kid with a swift sweep behind the knees. The Kid’s just as agile on the ground as he is on his feet but fuelled by a swirling mixture of pride, admiration, and lust, Harry lays him out, one large hand holding both wrists, broad hips pinning The Kid’s restless lower body to the ground.

Harry’s other hand flits to his back pocket, pulling out his trusty karambit, settling the loop around his index finger and settling the worn handle comfortably in his palm. He’s not a slasher necessarily, known for his skill and his finesse more than any one signature weapon or method, but this knife has seen a lot of kills, and a lot of his most revered hits. Harry thinks The Kid is more than deserving of a death dignified by his karambit’s razor-sharp edge.

He holds it to The Kid’s throat and it’s now or never. The Kid’s still fighting back, writhing underneath Harry’s weight, pressing the blade into the soft flesh of his neck, daring Harry to make the final move. “Do it,” The Kid hisses and Harry presses in until the skin along the length of his knife goes white. God, he wants to do it, press the blade in until The Kid’s skin splits, wants to see if the inside is as beautiful as the outside, wants to see the look in his eyes as the light leaves them, the sound of that final gasp of breath.

“I want–” Harry starts, voice wrecked, his gaze still fixed on The Kid’s throat; he wants to do it, he _does_, but not before he can get his mouth on it. _Fuck_, Harry licks his lips, he’s a fool for this kid and he’s going to get himself killed.

The Kid doesn’t give him a second’s grace, directing a sharp kick between Harry’s legs and a concussive punch to Harry’s jaw that leaves him dazed and reeling, falling forwards until his cheek hits the ground, The Kid’s footsteps echoing in the distance as he blinks his eyes.

The roar of The Kid’s motorcycle breaks the silence of the night as Harry comes to, sore but resolute.

**

Everything hurts as Harry weaves his way through the streets; considerably quieter than they were earlier tonight. It’s the kind of hurt that he’s grown used to, the way an athlete might relish the pain caused by a well-earned win, an ache that settles satisfyingly in his bones. Not that he’s earned his rest yet.

He takes a look at himself in the rear-view mirror and winces; he’s dishevelled in a way he’s unaccustomed to, hair stuck to his head with sticky blood, a bruise blooming on his jaw, each finger of The Kid’s hands visible on his neck, hot and painful to the touch. Along with the wounds to his body, his coat is torn and his knees of his trousers ripped, his initial rings scratched beyond repair and stained with The Kid’s blood.

He takes a long breath in and out as he drives, taking stock of each muscle, each bone, ensuring nothing is broken beyond repair besides his pride, his reputation, and maybe his heart.

He pulls up at the hotel entrance on Avenue Hoche, drags himself out and tosses his keys to the valet, who greets him personally. It’s been some time since he’s been to this branch of the hotel–even in London, he’s only visited a few times to avail himself of Alessandro’s expert tailoring, never to stay. As far as Harry’s concerned, the only people who stay at The Continental are traitors and thieves, miscreants trying to avoid their due. Unlike them, Harry can’t help but feel he’s running _towards_ something here, rather than from something.

He approaches the counter.

“Monsieur Gatsby,” Dominique greets him, her voice creamy and smooth. Harry’s sure the charming concierge intimately knows the deep dark desires of every assassin that’s ever set foot through the front door and he lowers his eyes lest she see right through him.

He taps the fingers of one hand impatiently on the counter as the other digs in his coat pocket for a coin. Retrieving it, he slides it across to Dominique who nods politely and passes him a key.

“_Arthur vous attend_.” Dominique smiles up at him, her face a mask of impersonal professionalism and Harry’s shocked back into reality. Obviously he needs the services of the in-house tailor, not to mention the doctor, but he’s not thought about anything besides finishing what he started with The Kid not more than a few hours ago.

“Is–” Harry starts before realising he still doesn’t know The Kid’s name. He starts again. “I’m looking for a guest, maybe you can tell me where he is.”

Dominque’s face falls only slightly before she regains her composure. “Monsieur Gatsby,” she says with another pleasant smile, “I feel it is prudent for me to remind you of the policy of this hotel that no business is permitted–”

“Of course I’m bloody aware of the policy,” Harry snaps. “Is he here or not? The Kid.”

Harry can’t pinpoint when his frustration at himself, at his weakness, turned into anger. It’s irrational but he feels it rising in his throat, the memory of The Kid’s hands around his neck making it hard to swallow it down.

Dominique purses her lips just a fraction before consulting the books.

Harry storms down the hallway. His whole body feels like it’s wound like a spring, each muscle taut and ready to fire. He knows the rules, has never been tempted to break them. He knows what will happen if he can’t stop himself from snapping The Kid’s neck here in the hotel, _excommunicado_ for the rest of his life, which would likely not be long at all once the High Table found out about his transgression.

His fists clench as he tries to channel his anger at himself into disgust at The Kid for racing back to the safe confines of the hotel. It’s a cowardly move, weak and unbecoming but his accusations ricochet around his brain and land squarely back on himself; it’s his own feebleness, selfishness, that’s led to this moment. He was unable to seal the deal all on his own.

He hammers on the door desperately, no longer sure what he’s even here for.

The Kid opens his door straight away, his face showing no sign of surprise at Harry’s looming presence. The cut on his cheek looks deep although it’s no longer bleeding and although he’s trying to hide it, Harry can tell that his bad knee is shot, his wrist probably as well. Injuries notwithstanding, The Kid’s eyes are dark and questioning, the corner of his mouth curling into the wolfish smile Harry’s gotten to know so well in the last few days. Only for the first time, Harry wonders if there’s something else there as well, an uncharacteristic _bashfulness_ that makes The Kid’s cheeks flush pink and his eyes crinkle. “Are you ready for round two?”

Their eyes meet and it’s like a punch in the chest. Harry takes a step through the doorframe and The Kid lunges at him, only this time is nothing like the last time. Harry feels his body wilt, muscles relaxing, tension leaving, nothing left besides the burning heat of The Kid’s body pressed against his own.

Harry moans, clutching helplessly at The Kid’s hips as The Kid trails hot kisses down his neck and his chest where his shirt lies torn open. He’s still covered in blood and sweat, ragged and filthy, so different to the persona he’s cultivated since starting in this profession. As The Kid pushes the coat off Harry’s shoulders, he reflects that it’s one of many things that will change after tonight, only he just can’t bring himself to care.

Harry comes to as The Kid bites down on his shoulder and grinds their hips together. It’s so good that Harry can’t remember why he ever thought not to mix business and pleasure because the things that make a good fight make a good fuck and The Kid is an amazing fighter. Harry pushes into the room, kicking the door shut behind them as he tears off his own shirt. The Kid wrestles off his own sweatshirt, torn and bloody like Harry’s own clothes, eyeing him with a look of determination and hunger that Harry’s never seen so vividly on another person.

“Fucking look at you,” Harry murmurs, running his hands down The Kid’s chest because he looks like he’s been mauled; bruises and scratches mottling his lovely caramel skin.

Harry presses a thumb into a deep cut on The Kid’s shoulder and The Kid tips his head back and groans, eyes fluttering closed, with pain or pleasure, Harry can’t tell. It’s a thrill knowing he made these marks, indelible in the way that their owner will be dead at Harry’s own hand long before they heal. The Kid’s strong, skin flush and body hot, corporeal and tangible but Harry knows the moment is fleeting and that makes it all the more special.

The Kid tugs at his swollen lower lip with his teeth and it’s a coy gesture but Harry knows better, knows what The Kid’s capable of and he wants him so badly he feels it like a physical ache, like an injury that’s never really healed properly. Harry exhales and pulls The Kid into his arms, softly now, and finally, finally, seals their lips together.

It’s a sizzling kiss and Harry’s never experienced anything like it, soft and hard at the same time, sending sparkles up his spine. The Kid’s skilful, like he probably is in everything, movements precise and perfectly weighted, each press of his tongue as considered as his punches. It’s dangerous, the pull of The Kid’s body, his mouth, and Harry knows that if The Kid asked, right now he’d give him anything he wanted, maybe even his life.

The Kid manoeuvres them towards backwards towards the bed and spins them, pushing Harry down onto the mattress and climbing on top. Harry winces as he lands on his shoulder, probably a torn rotator cuff, but the pain just makes him feel everything more acutely, not least the sensation of The Kid drawing his nipple into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue.

There’s a steady heat building between his legs and that’s no surprise, the way The Kid is practically devouring him. When The Kid bites down, Harry cries out, voice echoing throughout the room.

The Kid’s small hands, so much more powerful then they first seemed, work their magic, deftly unbuttoning Harry’s ruined trousers, peeling them down and off at an infuriatingly languid pace. The Kid licks his lips, eyes dark, like a cat seeking out a mouse, before yanking Harry’s underwear down without ceremony and taking him into his mouth.

Harry props himself up onto his elbows, pain shooting down his arm, but the view is worth it. The sounds The Kid makes leave no doubt about how much he’s enjoying himself, sweet murmurs escaping as he sucks firmly, up and down, hot and wet, and it’s filthy but it’s also perfect. The Kid pulls off with a pop. “You still with me, Gatsby?”

Harry laughs, because it’s all he can muster, incredulous at how such a fierce fight turned into _this_, but then it’s obvious. He promised Vénère he’d toy with The Kid, and toy with him he did, even if Vénère probably never expected the elaborate game he’d play with The Kid would end quite like this. Harry feels a tugging in his chest as he remembers, _this isn’t how it ends_, the only way it ends is–

“_Oh_,” Harry moans with a sharp intake of breath, because The Kid’s tongue is travelling lower, lower until he’s pressing in, damp and warm, to where Harry’s most sensitive, a shock of irresistible pleasure making his whole body jack-knife. It’s been years since he’s been fucked, refusing to let himself feel, to trust, to leave himself vulnerable to the wants of his body and his heart. Tonight though, he wants it like he’s never wanted it before and Harry rakes his fingers, knuckles bruised and bloody, into The Kid’s hair and pulls, urging him on.

The Kid laps at him until Harry feels his body relax, drawing his knees to his chest with wanton abandon, giving The Kid the space to finger him open as he presses kisses to the insides of Harry’s thighs. His touches are gentle in a way Harry wouldn’t have imagined him capable of but The Kid works him over until Harry’s skin is incandescent and he’s practically begging for it.

Finally, The Kid steps off the bed and grins at Harry, eyes crinkling at the corners, and although his smile is still spirited, it’s warm too, and Harry feels his heart skip a beat. The Kid pauses with his hands over the button of his jeans before unbuttoning his fly. Stripping his jeans and pants down in one, The Kid stands there for a moment, wearing the warm, low light of the bedroom like a protective cloak.

The Kid takes one final look at Harry, his gaze smouldering, before crawling up the bed. He nudges at Harry’s shoulder, planting a single kiss on the same spot. “Flip over, love.”

The Kid fucks Harry on his front, deep, slow strokes with the insistent snap of his hips and it hurts but the pain is revitalizing, a deep heat stirring in his gut and spreading to the tips of his toes.

Harry can only grip the pillow with his fist as The Kid presses his chest to Harry’s back, his skin scorching, holding him tightly as he pushes into him with all the tenderness Harry knows he doesn’t deserve. But Harry wants more.

“Harder,” he hisses through gritted teeth, reaching a long arm behind himself to pull The Kid in closer. “C’mon.”

The Kid shushes him, amusement in his voice despite the way he’s panting for breath, but Harry’s not satisfied.

“Come on, harder. I don’t care if–, you can hurt me. I can take it. I want it.” More than anything, he wants The Kid to be able to have something of him when, later, Harry is going to take everything from him.

The Kid tugs Harry onto his hands and knees, tracing delicate fingers down Harry’s back, pressing a sweaty palm to the base of his spine for leverage before pounding into Harry’s body. Just like before, The Kid doesn’t tire easily, stroke after punishing stroke until Harry’s vision blurs with salty tears. Unbidden, a deep guttural moan escapes his chest but it sounds more like a sob.

The Kid slows in response, rubbing Harry’s back in wide circles, his hips barely moving. The Kid’s touch is equally good whether it’s ruthless or loving and the mixture of pleasure and regret is agonising. “Stop,” Harry chokes out when the squeezing of his heart becomes too much.

The Kid stills the hand on Harry’s back but he doesn’t remove it and Harry thinks he feels the simple touch of The Kid’s hand more keenly than any blow he’s ever received.

“I forgive you,” The Kid whispers finally, breaking the silence in the room.

Harry hangs his head.

The Kid reaches a hand to the back of Harry’s neck, squeezing gently. “Turn over, I want to see you.”

Harry pulls off and does as he’s told but he can’t make eye contact, throwing a forearm over his eyes, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.

The Kid pushes back inside him and Harry gasps, his arm falling reflexively away from his face to grip at the bedsheets. They make eye contact as The Kid fucks him, sweetly now, and The Kid looks more wrecked than he did in the middle of the Parvis, cheeks flushed and skin dewy, barely holding on.

Harry knows how he feels; he’s seconds from coming, The Kid hitting that sweet spot inside of him as if he knows Harry’s body intimately, and it occurs to Harry that in many ways, he does. It’s a shock realisation, that he’s never shared the duality of love and hate, death and sex, with anyone else. The Kid’s eyes are closed, his lips pursed as if he’s trying desperately not to come and he looks so beautiful, sinewy and strong but defenceless to the relentless pull of Harry’s body.

The Kid sends one final shock through him with a perfectly poised thrust and Harry comes with a gasp, spilling over his chest until it runs down his sides. _La petite mort_, the French call it, the little death, and Harry understands why because it’s transcendent what The Kid’s done to him, his orgasm wrung out of him like a life force. For a few moments, Harry sees nothing, feels nothing but white hot heat.

Harry comes to just in time to feel The Kid gripping at his thighs, buried to the hilt, and then The Kid’s coming with a shout, head thrown back shamelessly.

When it’s over, Harry’s quietly afraid The Kid will kick him out, laugh it off as a meaningless fuck, the result of a bit of overzealous roughhousing and the both of them being starved for human kindness. It’s only then that Harry realises how fucked he is, because despite all his pledges of professionalism, to finish The Kid off with a second thought, Harry wants to get to know him.

Thankfully, The Kid’s unapologetic about who he is and what he wants, flopping down on top of Harry with a sticky thud. Harry sighs and gives into it, drawing The Kid into his arms.

They lie still for a few moments, saying nothing, because there’s nothing more that needs saying, and Harry can’t help but feel like it means something. Maybe The Kid agrees because he rolls onto his side and looks Harry squarely in the eyes, fingertips tracing Harry’s cheek.

Harry’s eyes flicker over The Kid’s face, his youthful good looks only marred by the distant gaze of a man who’s seen too much. Harry wonders if The Kid feels it, the quiet affinity between them that says _I’m just like you_.

The Kid smiles a private smile and crawls in close, pressing their foreheads together and Harry’s too tired, too comfortable to do more than nose at The Kid’s cheek. “Tell me your name,” Harry whispers almost inaudible.

The Kid snorts, wriggling slightly in Harry’s arms but he doesn’t move to escape. Finally, after what seems like an age, he offers what Harry’s wanted to know since he first saw The Kid’s picture that fateful night in Vénère’s club. “It’s Louis,” he whispers in Harry’s ear, breath hot, and Harry feels his body stirring again, hopelessly responsive to everything The Kid does. There’s no question Harry’s going to give into it again and again.

Some hours later, when the weak light of an overcast morning slips through the break in the curtains, Harry finds himself alone. He rolls over, wincing in pain as he remembers the way The Kid held him fiercely in his lap as Harry rode him until his legs shook with exhaustion.

There’s a note folded on his pillow on hotel letterhead, and Harry blinks his eyes awake as he picks it up to read.

_Harry, _it starts, and Harry’s heart swells because The Kid, _Louis_, apparently knew _his_ name all along.

_By the time you read this, I’ll be on my way to London. Happy hunting. _

_Yours, _

_Louis_

_Ps. I’ll be seeing you_

Harry grins as he whispers to himself, “Not if I see you first.”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This started out in my head as a one-shot with an open ending but now I'm thinking it could be a series...I have a lot of headcanons about how H & L came to be assassins and maybe in part two they go on the run from the French mob. 
> 
> If that's something you'd like to read, let me know in the comments!
> 
> Tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/bitter-leaf/189681825307) if you would like to reblog :)


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